The Writing Prompt Boot Camp

2011 April PAD Challenge: Day 16

For today’s prompt, write a snapshot poem. When I think of snapshot, I think of a photograph or painting still life. The poem would bring this particular moment to life. However, if you have another interpretation, I encourage you to follow your muse.

Here’s my attempt:

“Saturday morning”

He’s sprawled out on the bedwatching the wind shake the leavesand branches. The sun slides throughthe slats of the blinds. She snugglesnext to him and listens to his heartbeat hard and slow. They staythat way most of the morning;after all, there is no alarm.

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0 thoughts on “2011 April PAD Challenge: Day 16”

Skipping back through the weeks to read here and there and do a little commenting (very little, I’m afraid) – would be remiss if I didn’t mention Marie Elena’s courageous "Stolen Snippets" – quite possibly one of the bravest pieces of work I’ve ever read and is, "too much, too much, too much" I love you so much for sharing this Marie Elena.
Then to have Bruce’s "Bride" follow so closely after nearly undid me – how very lovely, especially the last 2 lines; exquisite.
Meant to thank you Marie Elena for leading me back to Corinne’s poem that I somehow missed the first time through – it was as achingly poignant as reported tho’the title escapes me now again …
Also found "Frame by Frame" by Nikki Markle very well-told esp. liked, "ä condensed version of childhood" amongst other lines
And, "Protection" by Arielle Lancaster-LaBrie – such vivid images "…a peace offering:a mug of steaming coffee…" I felt like I was there; beautifully told.
Stephen S. Whitaker’s "The morning you left. January. Snowstorm." A wonderful, short narrative poem with an especially effective ending.
So much good work here as throughout the challenge …

This bedside lamp has seen me through
countless transitions from the real world
to the cusp of dreams, its softer hues cast
like an amber quilt over everything light
can touch. The cats curl at the foot of the bed,
their stillness as infectious as yawning,
while my eyes grow heavy and wait
for my body to surrender.

Drenched in moaning
the church is consumed
people crying in the upper room
one last look, to view no more
a lifetime closes memories door
soul singer comes with celebration song
rejuvenation cloud makes me strong
release this life
so we can live on
we can live on

Grace is all that you see
From the top of her head, to the bottom of her feet
She flows across the still page, bringing you to your knees
She’s able to move without moving, a living doll captured on the page
Slim fingers beckoning you closer, eyes melting you all over
Grace, the super model; a queen

The man and woman sit on the bench
In a park by the lake on cool afternoon.
He squints at the light, the breeze ruffles
His thin white hair and his legs are bared to the air.
She sits upright, facing into the wind and
Braving the chill with the skin of her arms exposed.

1
You’re in my coral apron with the tractor patch,
kneeling on raised soil and sunlight, squinting
at the camera. A zephyr wind blows my hair over
the lens: part of you comes through part of me.

2
The flowerbed is made. Daffodils proudly present
trumpets to their maker. You insist I get in the photo:
show up the flowers. I’m in grubby overalls and your
white tee. Lucky chases Boots the cat. I look
away: my profile points to dust tails.

3
In Chicago’s meadow: Wrigley Field, you hold up
a plastic cup of pop. Ryno blasts one past
the ivy leaves, gets a holy cow from Harry:
your bliss on 110 film.

4
I bring in crocus for the saffron,
blossoms for their fragrance and
call out to you. I open the pantry door.
You, hiding, take a close-up of freckles on my nose.

5
A ladybug leaps from a calyx to your arm;
light leans forward. You hand me a calla
with a band in it. I jump into your arms,
kissing before yessing: a gift from a passerby
with a Polaroid and quick spring.

Dear Moosehead,
What the …???? What happened there?
Man I hate Texas! Not all of Texas, not
everyone in Texas but I sure hate them
Rangers!! Jeter ate his third hat of mine
– your cousin got me another. Only woman
I ever see that gives a good goddamn about
yours truly. Gonna keep it in the cab from now on.
Gotta be brief I need to get out on the road.
Fancy a spin out to JFK- make some good green.
Pick me up at 6 – I sure need a good night!

Still running to catch up after being away for the weekend (at the Round Top poetry festival in Austin, which I heartily recommend!), and I see that neither this one nor yesterday’s quite hews to the prompt as closely as it might…but no matter; it’s here.

During the Performance of a Guitar God at the Philadelphia Folk Festival, August 2010

Unexpected communicants, these slugtoed
overgrown kids, in their twills and beer logos,
lining the aisle leading downhill to the stage foot.

Each one drops into a kneel, in turn.
in the seeping fallen light, raises hands,
gestures quick, then turns back

into the music-riddled dark. What souvenir
does the supplicant take: some blur of the muse,
or an image of the worshipful shoulders

A small bit of fluff, wings
Clear, iridescent, hover-
Hanging around the water.
From water it came, to
Water it will go. Ephemeral
Life bent on fulfilling
Itself. Time for naught,
But when time comes along
It joins with a paltry
Few thousand more, a glimmer
Against the sun, a wave of
Humid in the heat, silent.
By night they fall heavy,
Water surface warfare.

As waves crash in the night
I glide along the sandy shore
While stars glitter in the blackened sky
I know my Beloved is the distance
So I patiently await her sunrise
And just when she begins to shine
I fade once more into the morning light
Never to feel her warmth
Or the bliss of a morning’s kiss

There are few moments in time
When looking back you can say
That, that was a perfect moment
When emotion and moment and environment
All managed to collide to create
A memory that would linger forever
With traces of emotion and longing and love
Of things even though gone and past
You would never trade that since moment
That single dance.
We may have parted on dark terms,
Have wept when our love came to an end
But that moment, a moment bathed in soft light
Slow music, the soulful voice of Sarah McLaughlin
How being held in his arms and hearing those words,
I truly felt I was in the arms of my angel
And now thirteen years later I still believe
That was a perfect, last dance for me.

Glowing bright,
strong,
fearless,
It shines through the trees
In my backyard not caring,
Daring,
To show its glorious self,
Waiting patiently
For the moment
When I would see it.
Again and again
For a few more nights
Just to be sure
I am aware it is there,
So sure of its beauty.
It will hide for another month
Then peek-a-boo its way
Into my yard
Into my heart
One more time.

Precious
Baby girl, new baby smell
A cry so robust for tiny lungs
You nuzzled yourself up
Under my chin and right
Into my heart.

Little one
Cerulean eyes that sparkle
Pink bow in chestnut hair
A diaper and a smile that
Illuminates even this photo.

I love
Your newness, your snuggle, your
Sounds, your beauty, the outfits,
How you look when you sleep, what
You wear, and your energy. I love your
Smile when I talk to you, how
You have brightened my life,
That you are my great granddaughter,
How I love you so deeply.

May the world treat you kindly, and
You be blessed with all that is good.
May your pain be little and your joy big.
May you find the world
Accommodating to your needs
And always welcome you with open arms.

see how the light captures
this vanilla envelope lying on my table,
it’s flap ruffled and torn at first promise.
i am sorry but my heart does not ache for the long lost sister
who originally wrote it, reaching out across hundreds of miles.
there is nothing for you here. i cannot feel something i don’t.
and i know you will hurt when i do not write back,
become our summer of stoning and purgatory.
this vanilla envelope lying on my table,
it’s flap ruffled and torn.

beginning with day, tweets
start in trees behind the shed
where, relieved of its slate
and legs, an old pool table,
pockets stuffed with potting soil,
racks up a huge hedge of bleeding
hearts every spring, surrounded
by the blue phallic nubs
of elephant ear hostas.

this is "where Euclid’s geometry
and Newton’s mechanics
would account for" the animate
existence within the swirled leaves;
elucidating each Midwest
April morning, a formula,
or rule of mathematics outlining
the emergence and separation
of offspring from the body
of its mother

Oh, my! Thank you so much, The Doctor and Penny Henderson, for the kind mention! I’m glad that my poem resonates with you! 🙂 Blessings to all of you! I haven’t been able to comment on poems since this PAD Challenge started, but there were so many I really liked!